Harney Peak
South Dakota
May 2015
When we summit our high points, we like to get an early start, usually at daybreak which often happens before most restaurants begin breakfast service. We like to get an early start to our hiking because, well, we like to start early. Also in these midwestern states, thunderstorms often come up suddenly in the afternoons. Harney Peak, the high point of S D, our hike for today, is about a thousand feet above the rest of the world around here so if lightning is gonna strike, it’s gonna strike up where we will be.
“Oh, you want the Hill City Cafe,” the desk clerk at our hotel tells us. “My husband eats breakfast there all the time so it must be good. And they open early.” If it’s good enough for the husband of this woman we’ve never met before, it’s certainly good enough for us. She gives us driving directions that depend heavily on a knowledge of local landmarks which we’ve never seen before and therefore of which we have no knowledge. This is the first time for both of us here in the little town of Keystone, South Dakota, population 339.
Nonetheless, a ten mile drive brings us right to the front door of the Hill City Cafe. Lisa and I are the first customers of the day. I pick up the folded newspaper that is lying on the porch and we walk through the front door at opening time. A woman is busy behind a counter, filling containers, breaking eggs, turning on the toasters, pouring stuff, wiping the counter: all those things one does to get ready for a day of feeding people. I hand her the newspaper, she shows us to a table. I wonder. Every table is available. How does she pick the right one for us?
Nondescript little place. Six tables, three booths, a counter behind which she is cooking, large animal heads displayed above eye level on several walls, another small room in the back for more patrons. Simple diner. Open at 7 a.m.
She scurries about, putting things that are over here over there, and bringing things from over there to put them over here. She serves hot coffee to Lisa. She pours a second cup and places it at another table, even though no one else is in the restaurant. A minute later, a local dressed in jeans, flannel shirt and Western boots walks in, a slight hitch in his step. I’m saying he’s a local because he goes right to the table where the day’s second-served cup of coffee is waiting for him. Not his first rodeo. She hands him the newspaper saying, “That gentleman” — indicating me — “brought this in for you.”
We’ve already noticed in our two days here in the Black Hills that locals are extremely friendly. Tourists on the other hand, not so much.
Our local coffee-drinker turns, tips his newspaper to me and asks, “Where you from?”
“Pittsburgh.” And then we wait for the inevitable, “I used to live there,” or “My cousin lives just outside of Pittsburgh,” or “Go, Steelers!” To our surprise, he says none of these things. Instead he explains, “If you are from South Dakota, you are called a South Dakotan. What are you folks from Pittsburgh called?”
Without a pause, Lisa says, “Yinzers.”
If you are from Pittsburgh, you are a yinzer, and you know exactly what that means. If not, you need to understand that Pittsburgh has its own dialect, called Pittsburghese. When referring to people in the second person voice, singular or plural, we will often say “yinz” as in “yinz guys,” meaning “you guys,” or something roughly like that.
“Yinzers? Hmm.” He moves on. Wise man. “You seeing the sights?” he asks.
“Yep. We’re tourists.”
“Oh, folks like you, we don’t call ‘em tourists,” he explains. “We call ‘em visitors. Tourists ain’t so nice. You seem okay.
“Now while you’re here, be sure to go see Crazy Horse. You don’t want to miss that.”
Crazy Horse is a couple days in our future; it actually is on our schedule. “We will be sure to see that,” we assure him.
Crazy Horse is a statue, under construction. A very big, very big statue. Oh my goodness, it’s big.
“Where you staying?” We tell him we have a hotel room in Keystone. In the lobby of this hotel, large animal heads are displayed above eye level on several walls, just like here in the diner. Also, we’ve noticed these large animal heads at the general store, the grocery store and in several restaurants, like this one. Could be a theme. The wild, wild west.
“Yeah,” he says, “Keystone can get pretty crowded during the summer. All that’s open in Keystone during the off season though is the taffy shop. Used to be big tin but that’s done. Been done.”
Keystone, South Dakota, has gone through a number of transitions. It started, like all things, as nothing. Then in 1875, gold was discovered and settlers came pouring in to work the mines. Soon enough this small settlement grew into the town of Keystone. Then tin and other metals were found in the ground, drawing more population. Fanatical mining depleted the metals, and when there was nothing left to take out of the ground, the economy crumbled and the town nearly collapsed. Then came the carving at Mount Rushmore, reliably passable roads, a railroad and electric power. Keystone boomed again, this time with tourism as its main industry. Or with a nod to our diner friend, let’s call it visitorism.
After breakfast, Lisa and I are walking out. He says, “You have yourself a good day today.”
“Yins too.”